


tell me that it's not just me

by perennial



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1880's Vienna AU, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, TOOTH. ROTTING. FLUFF., Tooth-Rotting Fluff, you have been so warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the fourth time Lord Lupin has caught Miss Granger hiding in the shadows outside a crowded ballroom while her ward dances inside. Twice he happened to be outside smoking a pipe; the third he actually brought her a glass of wine, saying he had seen her slip into an outer corridor from across the room. Nothing indicates the reason for his purpose here now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me that it's not just me

**Author's Note:**

> I really love Georgette Heyer. That's my only excuse.

The woman in blue slips out of the brightly-lit ballroom into the shadowed safety of the long balcony. A stone bench is set across from the open doorway and she arranges herself where she can watch the dancers within. The evening is warm; the heady smell of night-blooming primrose is carried on the passing breeze. The stars above shine white in a clear black sky.

Inside, the assembly is an unending whirl of color and bodies. From here the orchestra is muted but strains still reach her ears. She breathes in and out slowly, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. Her eyes stay fixed on the crowd as it spins past—specifically, a boisterous red-headed girl in spring green, easy to pick out no matter where she is in the room.

The escapee jumps violently at a voice speaking from the shadows, relaxing almost at once as she recognizes it; but her heart pounds faster.

“You’re earlier than usual. Must be a bad night indeed.”

The voice is given tangibility as a man steps forward into the faint light thrown by the lanterns hanging around the doors. She hides her shaking hands in the folds of her dress.

This is the fourth time Lord Lupin has caught Miss Granger hiding in the shadows outside a crowded ballroom while her ward dances inside. Twice he happened to be outside smoking a pipe; the third he actually brought her a glass of wine, saying he had seen her slip into an outer corridor from across the room. Nothing indicates the reason for his purpose here now.

He is almost dapper this evening: his necktie is still in place and his tuxedo jacket is buttoned. His valet has been diligent with his hair: the gray threading through it is nearly invisible due to the combined forces of the low light and the heavy dose of hair oil that turns his head dark and glossy. The man before her is a very different version from his daytime self, who tends to look like he forgot to finish dressing halfway through the process, or hasn’t thought to visit a tailor in the last ten years.

Hermione hasn’t had any new clothes in nearly ten years, herself, but wealthy earls are forgiven shabbiness where poor chaperones are ridiculed.

“I dislike dancing,” she replies.

He chuckles. “I’m well aware. You’ve turned me down enough times. I’d take it personally if you didn’t show the same solicitude to every man who asks.”

There are plenty of reasons why a governess should not be seen dancing in the arms of an earl. Even if there weren’t, there is one good reason why she can never dance with him, and right now it’s whirling around the ballroom in green satin. She would remind him, but he knows all this.

Instead she says, “Why are you out here, my lord? _You_ love to dance. And—that’s the _Künstlerleben_. You’re supposed to be dancing with Lady Ginevra right now.”

He settles himself on the bench beside her. She is acutely aware of his proximity, of exactly how close she can position her elbow so that it just grazes the cloth of his sleeve.

“I gave my dance away.” He nods to the dancers rotating across the golden floor. Ginny is easily located, smiling up into the face of a tall, dark-haired young man: Harry, Viscount Potter, the Duke of Grimmauld’s nephew and heir—and the Earl of Wolfsbane’s godson.

Hermione stares at the earl. For weeks now, ever since they came to Vienna, the man beside her has hardly been out of earshot of Ginny, dedicated beyond belief to currying her favor. Almost everywhere they have gone, every tour taken and concert attended and sight visited, they have turned around and found him there: warm and genial and clearly marking his territory.

“You’ve dropped your suit?” she exclaims. Her heart speeds up—

“Not quite.”

—and plummets.

He says, almost lazily: “I never for a moment intended to press it.”

She is bewildered. “But, my lord—your attentions to Gi—to Lady Ginevra… She has grown quite fond of you.”

“There are others with a far better chance than I have, I believe.”

“Why not? You're as good as any of the rest of them. Better.” She feels hot all over. “Besides which, you’re an earl!”

“And bloodlines make the world go round,” he says, watching her.

“I mean that you may not be in line to inherit a dukedom, but you’re hardly a—a pig-herder. And you’re a good man. My lord.” With her own words, she reminds herself of the difference between them. She has overstepped the boundaries between what may be said to a member of the peerage, especially one so high as he, by herself, a woman with no name or background or two ha’pennies to rub together.

This world, this white, shining Vienna, is not the Weasley estate and she would do well to remember it. Just because her employer’s family holds her in high affection does not mean such a relationship is par for the course with everyone she meets, even if they appear to enjoy speaking with her. A few conversations does not a friendship make. Perhaps he just likes the attention; he would not be the first earl to speak to the lower classes as though they were born for the express purpose of playing audience to his powers of oration.

And yet, a peculiar camaraderie has sprung up between them. He has told her things that no man who only saw her as an impoverished chaperone would say. When she speaks he listens as though to an equal. She wonders if that will change when he marries Ginny.

She remembers, unbidden—two weeks previously, Ginny walking beside her on their way home from an afternoon at an art gallery, white stone around them turned blinding in the sunshine, her ward saying it would be easy to be married, even at seventeen, if one could converse with one’s husband the way the earl and Hermione do.

“Good men still have their demons,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, soft. He has told her—hardly three or four sentences, really—about his years serving in the army, fighting in Africa.

“Yes? You think you understand.” His tone is kind, softening his words. He is leaning forward a little, head turned so that he can look right into her eyes. “I’ve killed men, Miss Granger. Have you ever killed anyone? Do you dream of their faces as their soul leaves their body, or the feel of your sword as it cuts through their skin and muscle? The pain they feel, caused by your hand, the person inside, gone, thanks to you? Have you watched your friends die one by one, known exactly what future they’ll never live, known what void has been carved out of the universe now that they’re not in it?” His voice grows in intensity as he speaks, though it remains low.

There are tears standing in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t intend—Here.”

She takes the handkerchief he hands her. When her eyes are dry she holds it in her lap and stares at it. She doesn’t know how to tell him: she doesn’t want to hear any of this, no, but she doesn’t want him to stop, she would listen all night if it would lighten even a fraction of the weight he carries. Her tears are for him, for the grief and horror he cannot forget. For the terrible evil and heartbreak that war wreaks, no matter the victor.

She runs a thumb over the embroidery: his sigil, a wolf’s head under a full moon. If he withdraws now, without even having proposed, it could be disastrous for Ginny’s chances. Outright rejection from a man who has so obviously pursued her, an earl to boot, would cause irreparable damage to her reputation—and by association Hermione’s too, though that is hardly her foremost concern at present.

Her voice is slow and firm. “No matter what you’ve done or seen, or any demons that linger, you are a good man. Lady Ginevra would be the most fortunate girl in the Commonwealth if you were her husband. She has the highest opinion of you. Whatever the others’ advantages, I know the Baron can be persuaded to see your greater value.”

He watches her, a smile in the corners of his eyes. “Only the Commonwealth, eh?”

Her cheeks turn hot. “You know what I mean.”

“Speaking of Baron Weasley,” he says, eyes ahead, “it’s said by some that you’re planning a future with his youngest son.”

Hermione goes perfectly still.

She thinks: whatever damage to her reputation the earl’s rejection of Ginny might cause, it is nothing compared to what would happen to Hermione if the Baroness ever learned Lord Ronald had fallen in love with the governess.

She thinks: how could the earl have learned such a thing? A moment later, the answer dances past the door. Of course—Ginny told the viscount who told his godfather. _You shall pay for this, Ginevra._

She thinks, with fire in her veins: the earl believes she loves Ron, he must be told the truth and _quickly_ —

She thinks: be rational, Hermione. He is only being solicitous; he likely means to advise against it. Bloodlines make the world go round, after all.

She says, “On the contrary, my lord. That… association… was short-lived, and long over.”

He is silent.

She adds, “I beg you will not share your knowledge of it with any other person.”

He finally turns his head toward her. “I would be thrilled to never mention it again.”

She shrinks a little. He has never struck her as one who holds class division in high importance, but perhaps, when one is an earl, it goes without saying. What does she know of the unspoken standards of the nobility?

They sit in silence. The dancers rotate past like spinning tops. There is an ache in the center of her heart; she ignores it. She closes her eyes to its source. She has been closing her eyes to it for weeks.

“No pig-herder, Lord Ronald,” he observes.

“It would have been much easier if he were,” she says absently.

“To turn him down?”

“To marry him, of course. There’d have been no obstacle.”

“You don’t consider poverty an obstacle?” He is obviously thinking of the life she would have been descending into, not her actual circumstances.

She looks at him, cannot help smiling slightly. “I’m rather adept at being poor. I’ve had a lifetime’s practice of it. I thought we weren’t going to mention this subject again.”

“Right, we’ll talk of something else. Why don’t you like dancing?”

“I do like dancing. I simply prefer to observe it. From a distance.”

“You never learned how, is that it?”

She is a little affronted. Who does he think taught Ginny the basic steps all those years ago in the schoolroom? “It’s—it’s so close, it’s so _personal_. I’m not—Physical contact—”

“No one is born feeling comfortable dancing with a stranger,” he says. “The more you do it, the more familiar it becomes, the less awkward it feels.” He stands and holds out his hands.

She stares at him.

“Come on.”

She stands, swallows, places one hand on his shoulder, lays the other on his palm. She isn’t prepared for the warmth of his hand at her waist, and she’s so distracted by it that she doesn’t realize he is stepping forward, so their feet collide and they have to rearrange themselves and start over again.

He is tall, but not so much that they are unevenly matched. She keeps her eyes on his lapel: she knows her face is red and she won’t lift it and let him see until the fire there has faded. She tries to focus on the steps, on the music. This close, she can see the in-and-out of his breathing. The shoulder under her hand is a combination of bone and shifting muscle. She is acutely aware of every time the fingers at her waist move.

Eventually she is able to look at him. She finds his eyes settled on her.

“Not so bad, is it?”

“Not with you.”

He starts to say something, but the music picks up. They circle the balcony a few more times, so fast that her already pounding heart is now racing. She is grateful when the waltz slows again; she does not wear her corset as tight as Ginny does, but it takes a minute to catch her breath.

“Tell me,” he says. “What do you think of a little gray house on the Donaukanal with white shutters and purple wisteria over the door?”

“She will love it,” Hermione answers, making a massive effort to keep her voice light, glad. He is going to pursue his suit. Her part is played.

He grins. Double brackets form on one side of his mouth when he smiles. “She shall have her own particular room, then.”

This sounds odd, but what does she know of Viennese living habits? “I suppose,” she says.

“You suppose. Miss Granger, you don’t seem to want to accept what I’ve been telling you all evening. I have no intention of marrying anyone like Lady Ginevra.”

She hears this with alarm. She cannot have failed so completely. Whatever misapprehension he has fallen prey to, she must enlighten him. Their fates may rely on it.

“I realize she has some growing up to do, but give her a few years, she's just a little immature, excitable, she’s quite lovable when you know her, she’s very capable, she has it in her to be a wonderful wife—”

She should be enjoying this, the only chance she will ever have to hold him like this, to be held by him. But all she can do is prattle on about Ginny.

“She might be a bit gauche at times but she’ll grow out of it, at least she isn't cold or spiteful unlike some of the more sophisticated women you might choose—”

“I'm sure you're right. But rest assured that your ward has done as little to repel me as to attract me. Lady Ginevra is a delightful girl, and she is going to be the source of great happiness for a very fortunate young man, upon whose nuptials I look forward to bestowing my full blessing.”

“My lord—”

“Remus,” he says, a strange light in his eyes. “Remus, that’s my name.”

“I know.”

“When everything else is stripped away, that’s who I am. I want you to call me by my name.”

“I can’t,” she answers automatically.

“Why not? You can hardly remember to Lady Ginevra by anything but her nickname.”

She stutters, “That’s different. I’m her companion—”

“We’re companions.”

“Are we?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, “we are. And if I have any say in the matter, we’re going to be much more.”

She mulls over this bewildering statement for a few turns. “I am truly sorry, my lord, but nothing can persuade me to change my place of employment.”

He gives a quiet laugh. His arm slides around her back and draws her closer. “Hermione,” he whispers against the skin below her earlobe.

Her feet stumble to a halt. Startled, thrilled, she starts to pull away. “What—?”

He takes her upper arms in his hands. “Sweetheart, don’t you know why I’m here?” The look in his eyes makes her feel as though she is glowing, weightless, might take flight.

She starts trembling. She stutters, “Don’t you know why _I’m_ here? I’m a chaperone, I’m no one, I’m nothing—”

He is shaking his head. “My darling. You’re everything.” He says meaningfully: “After so many years alone, years of anger and self-loathing and bitterness, I woke to find it all swept away by a glance like a summer day.” He runs one warm thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. His eyes are dark in the half-light, fixed on her.

“Not Ginny,” she whispers.

“Ginny! Good grief, no!”

“Me?” she says softly.

“You. It's you, it's always been you, since the moment you stood in the Belvedere and told me exactly why I ought to revere Gustav Klimt.”

She hears him, believes him, but can hardly register that this is happening at all. The music in the ballroom swells and recedes. The dancers within are still flying around the room; no one is aware of what is happening on the balcony.

He loosens his grip and moves back, sliding his hand down her gloved arm to her wrist; he lifts her hand and touches her knuckles lightly to his lips. He’s watching her, patiently waiting for a reply.

She hears her voice from a distance. “I—I, you—”

A grin spreads across his face. He looks positively boyish. “Miss Granger, tongue-tied? This is an accomplishment. Wait until your ward hears.”

She gives him an exasperated look.

“I’ll make it simple for you. I’m going to ask you a question. All you have to do is answer.”

All the air leaves her lungs. “Yes.”

“Yes—how now?”

“Yes! My answer’s yes.”

His face creases with mischief. “Well, good, I like this arrangement of the _Wiener Blut_ as well.”

“Oh, Remus, honestly—”

His laughter cuts off abruptly. “Say it again.”

She could pretend she doesn’t know what he means, but she does. “Ask me properly,” she counters.

“Whom are you going to marry?”

“That’s cheating.”

He says it more firmly. “Whom are you going to marry?”

It takes a moment to get her throat working. “You.” She thinks she must be glowing, her smile is so wide.

The corners of his mouth curve up, but he says, “Try again. Whom would you marry even if he were a pig-herder?”

She can only laugh. He shakes his head. “Try again.” In a tone that stills her breath, he says, “Whose heart belongs—utterly—eternally—to you?”

She whispers, “Yours, Remus.”

“Much better.” His eyes are locked on hers. He steps closer. “And to whom does your heart belong?”

She closes the gap between them, taking his face in her hands and pressing her mouth to his. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and an instant later she feels his arms wrap around her, hugging her to him so tightly that she is brought to her tiptoes. And then his hands are moving—up to her neck, between her shoulderblades, trying to get even closer to her, trying to hold her as close as possible. He kisses her until the world sways.

They break apart to catch their breath. He drops his forehead to hers. “Can I ever be as much to you as you are to me?”

Hermione closes her eyes. She opens them and lifts her head to look into his brown ones. “You already are.”

The truth of her words shines from her face. He breathes out slowly.

Through the open doors, the opening strains of the _Tausendundeine Nacht_ are playing.

“Shall we?” she says, taking his hand. She tips her head toward the ballroom.

A broad smile spreads across his face. He tightens his grip around her hand. They walk forward, their steps in sync, and go in to join the whirling throng.


End file.
